


Worry

by dancingontheedge



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Emma Green does not appear in this fic, F/M, Illness, Male-Female Friendship, church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingontheedge/pseuds/dancingontheedge
Summary: Henry Hopkins has a rather fraught Sunday.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



> I was originally planning to fill Ultrahotpink's prompt "stop pushing me away" for both Emmry and Phoster. This was to be my Emmry fill, but it just wasn't working. But I've written a thing anyway!!! (Ultrahotpink, your prompt will be filled eventually. Sadly, with only one Phoster fic and not two fics.)

Henry Hopkins spent a great deal of his time worrying.  Sometimes, it felt like he never stopped.  He had a lot to worry about.  Both of his brothers fighting out west in the 32nd Ohio, his mother and sister on the farm alone, the sick and wounded men at Mansion House, everyone suffering from this war.  Every time he heard of a battle fought or lost, he worried for the men mown down—Union and Rebel both—he worried for the people left behind who were returned to slavery, he worried for the people who had been planning to eat the crops set to burning.  He worried.  He would not be able to bear it without his faith in God, who made his worries less burdensome.

He looked around the little blue room with its ornate wallpaper and the makeshift altar that did not quite fit with the delicate décor.  The sturdy table and plain white tablecloth were not meant for decoration, but they served their purpose.  He set his Bible down next to the candlesticks and continued setting up for the service.

A quiet knock on the open door drew his attention.  He felt a smile grow on his face, and then a rush of disappointment swept through him. His smile faltered and took on a strained quality as he nodded at little Sister Isabella.  The nun knelt and began her rosary.  Emma had been attending his Sunday services every week without fail since shortly after she started nursing.  For the last month, after Mr. Lincoln’s visit, she had arrived while he was preparing and helped him set up.  The first time she had started to help pulling chairs in from other rooms, he had nearly objected, but she had forestalled him with a quelling look and some pointed words.

“I am here to help,” she had said, “and that is not restricted to fixing tablecloths.”

And so he had accepted her help with good grace and nary a whisper about feminine delicacy.  After all, what went on in Mansion House was hardly for the faint of heart.

Today, Emma was running a bit later than usual, and as time pressed on, he began to feel a niggling concern.  Sister Isabella finished her Rosary, and left.  Still no Emma.  By the time the soldiers, nurses, and doctors started to arrive, his concern was cemented.  For four weeks she had appeared without fail with a smile on her face and a laugh on her lips.  Some days they spoke of serious matters—her family, his family, her father, the war—and some days they spoke of nothing but nonsense.  It was treasured time for Henry.  Three quarters of an hour of pure happiness in a week of hell.

He focused his attention and began the service, but every time a chair or floorboard creaked it drew his attention for a split second.  He finished one, two, three services looking for Emma in every creak of wood and rustle of fabric.  Still no Emma, and his concern sharpened into worry.  She had started coming to his services months ago, beginning with just the service for the Confederates.  At first it was because she did not trust him with her boys, but that changed after he helped Tom.  She had confessed, one day, to missing church since most of the rest of her congregation—preacher and all—had fled Alexandria by the time the occupation was complete.

She had now missed all of the services he was giving today, even the one for the Confederates.  After cleaning up his little makeshift chapel, he made his way directly to the Confederate ward.  Like all the nurses, Emma hated to leave a boy to die alone.  Perhaps one of her boys had taken a turn and all his worry for her was for naught.  He looked in.  No Emma, and he was more than just concerned. 

He was distracted from his worry by the rapid approach of Nurse Mary.

“A boy with shrapnel in his gut is in need of you, Chaplain,” she said commandingly, “I’ll take you to him.  Private Bill Thurmond out of the 12th Rhode Island Zouaves, nothing we have done has stopped the bleeding.”

Mary, ever efficient, had started walking away—back toward Private Thurmond—as soon as she had caught his attention, explaining the details on the way.  Henry was quite thoroughly distracted from his worry for Emma, but something must have still shown on his face to Mary’s astute eyes, for just before they reached the Private’s bedside she stopped, turned to face him directly, and said, “What’s troubling you, Chaplain Hopkins?”

“Nurse Green has not yet made an appearance today.”

The knowing light that came into Mary’s eyes was discomfiting.  He shifted in place awkwardly before directing his attention to Private Thurmond and away from Mary’s almost-smirk.  As he walked up to the bed, he could feel her attention still on him.

“Henry,” she said gently.  He gave a start at the use of his given name.  “I’ll look into it,” her voice was serious and calm, and he smiled gratefully at her before turning back to Private Thurmond.

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur.  After finishing with Thurmond he had started his usual Sunday rounds—making sure the boys unable to come to service received spiritual reassurance and had someone to pray with. 

He spent his dinner speaking with Sister Mary Catherine about the problem of Last Rites.  The devout Catholic boys ought to have someone to give them their final sacrament, but he was the only Chaplain at Mansion House.  It was a conundrum, as the Catholic Church did not permit nuns to administer sacraments, and he was not a Catholic.  Sister Catherine had written to the Bishop to see what was to be done, but had not yet heard back.

And even still, he felt a niggling concern for Emma.  His worry had moved to the back of his mind as he was absorbed in his duties.  It had helped, that Mary had promised to see about Emma.

After his final round about the wards after dinner, he retreated to the parlor that the staff used.  It was a small room with an air of opulence only slightly tinged by the pall of death that hung over the hospital.  In the daytime it was a bright room, the large windows affording plenty of light.  But at night the room was dim in an effort to conserve kerosene.

Henry found a spot next to the lamp and opened his Bible.  It did not take long for him to realize that the lamp was pointless.  In his first moments of stillness since early that morning his worry for Emma returned to the fore of his mind, and he could not concentrate on scripture.  He snapped his Bible closed and went up to his little room.

He was awoken early Monday morning by a gentle rapping on his door. 

“One moment,” he called, swinging his feet to the floor and rapidly dressing.  He opened the door to find Mary, looking uncertain.  The early hour and her earnest face wound his nerves tighter.  Judging by the light outside it was not yet six.  He had slept poorly, worrying, always worrying. 

“I have news,” she said quietly.  He held his breath.

“Emma was ill, and her family did not think to send word.  Isaiah went over this morning the minute he woke up and talked with Belinda.”

“ _Was_ ill?” Henry said; the hoarseness in his voice just a bit more than he could attribute to his weariness. He could feel himself tensing, preparing for a blow as his mind leapt to the worst possible scenario.  Nursing was dangerous work, even away from the battlefield.

“Her fever broke some three hours ago.  She’s on the mend, Henry.  Belinda took good care of her.”  Mary’s voice was reassuring, her words like a balm to his frantic soul.  He felt himself relax, slumping against the jamb of his open door.

He took in a shuddering breath, “Thank you, Mary,” he said, raising his eyes to meet hers.

“Any time Henry,” she placed her hand on his arm reassuringly, smiling up at him.  “What else are big sisters for?”


End file.
